


Precious Expectations

by Xbalanque



Category: Great Expectations - Charles Dickens, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xbalanque/pseuds/Xbalanque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The author found that the inspiration for this tale arose, as is too often the case, from an unhealthy confluence of extreme sleep deprivation, stress-induced instability of mind, and a natural penchant for puns of the most embarrassing quality. It takes only a short, albeit deranged leap to reimagine Phillip “Pip” Pirrip as Pippin, and from there the story, while unfortunately falling short of writing itself, snowballs into a series of ever more depraved perversions of canon. Readers should expect [in]significant departures from established details of the universe. Naturally.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This was the final project for a class, and so only the fragment provided was written. More may come...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Having been given the name Peregrin, on account of a “predilection”, on the part of my father, as the Old Took was heard to harrumph, “for plosives” – nor was he at all incorrect, as my sisters had the similar misfortune to be named Pearl, after our mother, Pimpernel, and Pervenica – I found that from my earliest utterances that my infant tongue could not faithfully reproduce those syllables that comprised the whole of my father’s inheritance to me. “Pippin” was the rudest approximation I could conjure, and so Pippin I have hereafter remained.

These names I can give only with the authority of Aunt Lobelia, wife to Otho Sackville-Baggins of Bag End, my first cousin (twice removed). My parents I had never seen, save from time to time in a small portrait on the mantelpiece of the hearth, before it was lost after the first time Isengard goblins quartered in Bag End. My father’s portrait was long of face, I recall, and in my childish fancies I imagined him very glum, slouching about here and there with a sigh or a frown; my mother, ruddy-cheeked and curly haired. My parents, I observed, could not have appeared more dissimilar, and yet somehow they had enjoyed a span of conjugal bliss, brief though it must have been. I had never known them, but even now in my tweens I still entertained from time to time the phantasy that the railways and mines would be closed, my parents and sisters would show up at the door to Bag End, and we could all return to Tuckborough again; though in truth, I knew the charnel-halls and foundries would not have made for pleasant neighbors.

I could take comfort in imagining, however, that my parents would have been little like my Aunt and Uncle. Otho Sackville-Baggins had the nut-brown curls of his Baggins ancestors, though not their lushness, and was renowned for precisely three things: his heirloom tomatoes, on which he lavished more attention than any other living thing; his farms in the Southfarthing, which grew the prized Southern Star, widely accepted as the Third Best Pipe-Weed in the Shire; and his marriage below his station to Lobelia Bracegirdle, which had fueled gossip about Hobbiton for months. Aunt Lobelia, for her own part, prided herself on what she liked to refer to as her “good old-fashioned Northfarthing sensibilities”. As far we were able to discern, that peculiarity of lifestyle translated solely to her wielding her umbrella in an inexplicably martial fashion and laying about with immense ferocity on anyone whom she suspected of “impudence and back-talk”. This enduring pugnacity earned her a fearsome reputation among her youngers, and I suspect that this conferred an air of monasticity to her daily life, as she strode amid a throng of Hobbits cowed into an imposed vow of silence at her presence. Lotho, their only son, had never felt the smart of an umbrella on his hindside, I was sure, though I had never seen a Hobbit more in need of Northfarthing sensibilities. Following the unexplained resignation of the Mayor of Michel Delving, Lotho somehow acquired enough clout to take charge of the Shirrifs, previously only called upon to bring over-merry revelers home from the taverns, and with the help of Mannish mercenaries he had begun a campaign of bullying the townsfolk of Hobbiton. When the first soldiers arrived from Isengard years ago, Lotho immediately surrendered, on the condition that he retain the authority to which he had become accustomed.

Surrounded as I was by such a cast of family, my living situation was not enviable, and indeed my caretakers, when not attempting to instill in me those cherished Northfarthing ways, had grown accustomed to thinking of me as less than kin and more of a servant, indentured unto them until I reached the age of majority. As that was yet more than a decade off, I was left to their less than considerable mercies. My allotment of the chores less generous than I had expected, I elected to engage in one of my solitary promenades, the occupation with which I had grown accustomed to filling many long and lonely hours, being only a short walk down the lane across the sandy pits of Bagshot Row to the base of the hill, and from there a brief stretch down the newly cobbled lane to the great stump and thereupon to the sooty bricks of Hobbiton proper. At such a late hour dew Hobbits my own age were like to be up and about, and only the workers from the mills and farmers from the plots could be seen to trudge wearily to their homes. The crepuscular gloom notwithstanding, I had made my way to the foot of that stump, alone in a yard rampant with weeds and small black stones. The air was rank and heavy with choking fumes, and the faint, foul reek of the carrion pits across the stream. I found myself wondering, not for the first time, what lay beyond the hills, beyond the smokestacks, beyond the Shire; for here in the graveyard were only brambles, and sooty chimneys, and acrid fumes, and a small figure, Pippin, shivering in the failing light and wishing not for the first time that he had remembered to pilfer a second supper while he had had the opportunity.

The streetlights were still dark and so I had resolved to return home soon, so as not to exceed the curfew, when a sudden rustling caught my ears, and as I crouched down and peered through the ragged weeds I saw a small figure swathed in ragged gray cloths creeping up the path leading from the factory by the Water, furtively casting its eyes about as it prowled up the hill. Giving thanks for the briars concealing me, I gave a start when I realized that this was no Man from Bree; nor was he a Shirrif, one of Cousin Lotho’s loud and ornery band of Ruffians; nor was he even a goblin, or some such soldier from the South; but a strange and shifty Hobbit, one a good deal older than myself. A stranger in the Shire, come from across the farms and over the heath.

I must have made some sharp movement or small noise then, because he turned towards me with a glance and with alarming celerity scuttled over. In his hand was a long and cruel blade, glittering even in the feeble dusky glow of the night. In an instant he was on me.

“Quiet, lad, or I’ll have your tongue out!” His voice was a terrible hiss; his eyes were wild, shot with blood and rolling in his head; his garb was strange and tattered, and caked in mud and grime enough to disguise its original color beyond all recognition; his face was wan and creased with worry, though it was twisted by wrath as he spat at me, his knife cold against my cheek.

“Oh, have mercy, sir! Please, sir, don’t harm me!” I begged in utter terror.

“Tell us your name, quick!”

“Pippin, sir.”

“Show us where you live.” He grabbed me by the ear, his sword now at my throat as I turned and with a quivering hand pointed to the top of the hill, and so damned my aunt and uncle to certain doom. To my amazement, the madman barked a strange, wheezing laugh, and relaxed his knife. “Bag End! You a Baggins, boy?”

“No, sir. I’m a Took.”

“What are you doing all the way out here, then? Shouldn’t you be back in the Great Smials, with the rest of your kin?”

“No sir. My parents are not yet back from Dunland,” I replied, my voice quavering.

“Well,” he said, “what are you doing at Bag End, then? You’ve no business there.”

“Sir, I live there with my Aunt Lobelia and my Uncle Otho.”

“Sackville-Bagginses!” the stranger cried, with a pained expression.

“Please sir, not so loud! They’ll hear us for sure.” Closer now, the man was considerably older than I had thought, and what little of his hair I could see was hoary with age. He seemed less frightening, for all his roughness and his sword, like an aging Hobbit hit hard by the times – not much different, in fact, from many of my neighbors.

“Who, now?” he whispered, looking half-ready to take off.

“The Ruffians, and my cousin Lotho, should luck be on our side. White Hand Uruk-Hai, if we are not so fortunate.”

“Hmph! They had best think twice if they want to catch me. Now, listen here. I’ve had nothing to eat for the past few days, not a morsel. I can’t show my face up at Bag End if your cousin is going to be there. So, meet me here tomorrow, first thing, with all the food you can take, or Uruk-Hai will be the least of your worries.”

A macabre grimace split his face:

“And I wouldn’t mind a good pocket-handkerchief either.”

With that he let me go and I fell to the ground, nearly bumping my head against the gravestones. I got to my feet and turned about, but the man seemed to have vanished. It was therefore shocking and frightening to hear at once his disembodied voice say, from what could only have been the empty air directly in front of me, “I’d take it kindly if you weren’t to mention my being here to anyone.” The sky was a grey purple now, the sun long since sunk beneath the horizon. There was a sudden horrible shriek, faint and far off from the southeast; a cold, grating screech raising the hairs on my hands and feet. For a moment I was transfixed by a sensation of horror and dread, then I made a brisk pace, half-running the whole way to Bag End.


	2. Chapter 2

I arrived at home far too late, despite my hurry. Horses were hitched to the picket fence outside, relishing in the ease with which they were able to undo months of Gaffer’s trimming and pruning of the lawn. At the end of the fence was a massive destrier, dwarfing the other steeds in both size and appetite.  As I gazed on helplessly, the beast craned its neck over the impotent wooden barricade and into the tomato patch below, taking a massive chunk out of one of the succulent fruits. I envied the horse, for it would never need to appreciate the Northfarthing sensibilities on which I would surely be re-instructed to-night.

I paused for a moment at the door; the green paint had been marred, and someone had scratched an unusual sigil onto the door of the house. Stepping gingerly over the threshold, I became aware of a ruckus in the living room. The owners of the ponies and horse, I could hear, were evidently competing with Lotho in emitting the most obstreperous possible laughter. Ignoring the cawing of the visitors, I tip-toed to the kitchen, intent on not attracting the attentions of unwanted umbrellas, where I found Uncle Otho sitting at the table, beleaguered and fumbling with a pot of glue and a cracked plate. Upon recognizing me he leapt from his chair, and entrusted me with most unwelcome news:

“The Missus has been out looking for you. Where have you been? She’s in a right temper, what with the Important Visitors and you not being there to lend a hand.”

My fears confirmed, I inquired as to the identity of these most garrulous guests.

“Soldiers from Isengard, or summat thereabouts. Lotho brought them over not so long ago.”

Uncle Otho abruptly ceased his account as the door to the house and Aunt Lobelia rushed in, breathing heavily and faced flushed the exact hue of one of her husband’s tomatoes.

“Where have you been, you little devil?” she exclaimed, and in a practices sweep removed her hat and brandished her umbrella at me. “Why, I have half a mind to thrash you right here! You were expected back an hour ago. Speak up!”

“I visited the old Party Tree, and lost track of the time,” I answered, not wholly untruthfully.

“Why, you ingrate! Abandoning me, when we have so many guests over for dinner! Up and down across half the Shire, you had me, and half-way to Bree, I reckon! Who was it that took you in? Yes, we could have left you in Tuckborough. And think of how you would fare then, eh? You’d be sleeping in a grain silo, and working for your keep.”

I muttered sullen apologies and surrendered to the inevitable thorough lashing from her barbed tongue. I preferred such a beating to that from the umbrella, and it seemed a stroke of incredible luck that I was to be spared that punishment.

The hullaballoo being raised on account of my truancy was clamorous enough to attract the attention of my cousin, who promptly swaggered into the kitchen to join in the fray.

“Hallo! What’s this now? Has Pippin got into the mushrooms again?”

A few of the soldiers had drifted in behind him to spectate, including an immensely tall Man who could only have been the rider of the warhorse that had dined on the sacrosanct fruits. By this time my Aunt had ceased her tirade, unwilling to appear a graceless hostess. I got my first good look at the troupe of His Wisdom’s men that had invaded the parlor of our Hobbit-hole.

“Good evening, gentlemen! Come, sit down, and I wager I can fix something up in the pantry. Pippin!”

I followed Aunt Lobelia into the pantry and left the band of soldiers with Uncle Otho. I was soon set to the drudgery of ferrying cheeses and wine-casks from the larder to the kitchen, where they were conferring with my cousin about the best ways to capture my new acquaintance. In between trips I contrived to snatch now and then some small delicacy insofar as discretion could allow, taking especial care to avoid attracting the attention of my Aunt. It was through this piecemeal fashion that I heard scraps of intelligence too pertinent to comfort, as Uncle Otho attempted to strike up a pleasant dialogue.

“What brings you fine gentlemen here to Bag End, anyway? There’s nothing much as would interest fellows such as yourselves.”

“It’s none of your business,” retorted one of the soldiers, but he was hushed by a glance from his companions. The tall Man, whom I took to be his captain, stepped forward.

“We’re on official business, sir; our orders come straight from Orthanc itself. We have reason to suspect that a dangerous fugitive has been sighted near here.”

This news stunned Aunt Lobelia into an uncharacteristic silence; Lotho, flushed with pride, interjected,

“Well, I dare say my boys and I can catch the blighter! No brigand can hide from the Shirrifs of the Shire!”

The captain was joined by his men in a roar of laughter, and Lotho, after a pause laden with consternation, was forced to join in.

Unable to rein in my curiosity, I piped in,

“Whatever did he do, this criminal?”

The captain was now staring intently at me.

“I’m afraid his crimes are official White Hand business. He has been charged with Burglary, High Treason, and Conspiracy, though I can say no more of the extent of his wickedness. But rest assured, we won’t rest until we find him and lock him up in the cell he deserves; he, and any who should lend him aid.”

He looked back at his soldiers and then at each of us in turn.

“Have any of you heard tell of the whereabouts of this criminal? Any assistance you could render to our search the Tower will not soon forget.”

Each of us shook our heads in response, though my hand found its way to the pockets within which I had concealed the ill-gotten spoils for the villain. It seemed as though the captain’s eyebrows furrowed for a brief instant, but he soon turned his searching gaze around the room, as he proclaimed:  
“Wherever he is, he can’t be too far off. He won’t be able to leave the Shire, and it’s only a matter of time before he slips up.”

At this the soldiers bade Aunt Lobelia and Uncle Otho, and retired to the guest bedrooms, and so, my ordinarily abode having been appropriated for lodging, I had little recourse save to choose a comfortable-looking chair and retire there. I cannot say whether I slept for long, or even at all, for all night my mind tortured itself with the ghostly images of glittering swords, and men creeping through the windows to bring an end to my too-short life.


	3. Chapter 3

When the first grey fingers of haggard dawn banished the night, I contrived to slip out of the house as soon as it was light enough to see. Shuffling cautiously to the linen closet, I tugged free an embroidered kerchief – they had belonged to the previous owner of the house, legendary Madd Baggins, if my aunt and uncle were to be believed – and clutched it tightly in my fist. Aware of the terrible punishment that was certain to follow if Aunt Lobelia were ever to find out that her good handkerchiefs had been used to wipe the grime from the face of a common criminal. I shrugged on an overcoat from the rack in the foyer to stave off the damp chill of early morning and stuffed the pockets with all the things I had stolen from the larder. With the utmost tenderness I coaxed the front door open. The accusatory squeal of the hinges was deafening to my conscience, and I wasted no time in dashing down the hill and off to the tree. I can remember little of my flight down the road, save that at every turn my guilty mind invented ever more obstacles from nothing; a bush by the roadside was a Shirrif waiting to clap me in irons, in my delusions, and the gravel pits held an ambush of Isengard soldiers, lurking with the sole intent of intercepting my rebellion and carting me off to a cell somewhere in the South.

At last, after several wrong turns brought about by the panic of an already flighty disposition, I arrived at the tree stump, pockets somewhat lighter by the consumption of a not inconsiderable quantity of the ill-gotten spoils of the pantry. My friend was nowhere in sight, but remembering how his voice had manifested with no visible source, I consigned myself to the task of waiting for him to broach the subject of breakfast.

I was not frustrated in the end, for after only a few minutes I saw the man step out from behind the tree. He had dispensed with the sword, and for all his earlier ferocity I was now disabusing myself of the possibility that he might desire to bring me to harm. The captain had listed off some of his crimes, had he not? And were he a murderer, I would have thought that the inconvenience of leaving a witness around should have prompted him to dispose of me; though my primary function having been accomplished by now, such would be a natural recourse at this late stage. With this unpleasant reflection I shivered in spite of myself.

As the man made his way over to me, I turned out my pockets, and noted with remorse that far too many crumbs were left from my impromptu meal on the way down. He immediately grabbed the nearest crust of dry bread and began to gnaw on it with an enthusiasm I would scarce have thought possible. He seemed even more pleased, were that possible, at the sight of the handkerchief, and every so often would use it to scrape his face free of crumbs and evict the freshest layer of dirt that had yet to accustom itself to its new residence.

As for myself, I felt a stab of pity, watching him devour the leftovers, and I ventured to break the silence:

“I am glad you enjoy the provisions.”

“That I do, lad,” he said between mouthfuls of jerky. A small zephyr tugged at his hair, and I wondered if this strange Hobbit had been born in the Shire; and if he had, how had he gotten involved with such crimes as to warrant a small company of searchers seeking to gaol him for them? It is not in the nature of most Hobbits to be adventurous, and so being in the presence of such an exception ought to have brought discomfort; but it may have been that what my Aunt calls “that Tookish streak” she is so fond of invoking at any misdeed I might accomplish was responsible for the thrill of secrecy I was experiencing, and for the first time wondered if it would really be so bad after all to go on an Adventure; for was this escapade unto itself an Adventure anyway?

Noticing the foolish grin that I could feel creeping across my face, the fugitive looked up from a hunk of cheese and with narrowed eyes asked:

“You haven’t played me false, have you, boy? Brought anyone else with you?”

Stung by the suspicion in his voice, I replied that I had not.

“Were you followed here, then? Did anyone see you leave?” he said, finishing off a last ring of dried apple.

Opening my mouth to repeat my indignant denial, I found myself cut off by a familiar voice:

“You can hardly blame the boy for not looking back, can you?”


	4. Chapter 4

The tall Man – the captain – was leaning against a ruined fence-post, calmly surveying the two felons below: the convict, almost casually turning his attention to a biscuit, the handkerchief dangling from his hand; and myself, frozen with guilt and terror at this inauspicious end to my first Adventure.

“You’ve been very difficult to track down, you know.” The Man’s voice was dry and stern. “Though you’ve lost a good deal of weight since I last saw you.”

“How did you find me here?”

The captain walked over and joined us on the ground, and my heart seemed fit to burst from the thrill of it all. I had never been more confused in my life than I was at that very moment. I had a certain preconception of how arrests were supposed to work and they by and large, I knew, were grand, exciting things, involving a chase, and maybe a duel or two. In short, they were in every way wholly unlike the picnic I appeared to be currently hosting.

“By now you must surely understand that I have not been the only one searching for you.”

“I’ve managed perfectly well so far, thank you very much.”

“The noose is tightening, my friend,” (I choked at that), “and soon there will be no place where you can seek refuge. What madness possessed you to come to the Shire?”

“Call it nostalgia.”

“I still have no idea how you escaped from Isengard. Imagine my reaction, after months of infiltration and preparation, only to discover that you had walked out, against all odds, on your own.”

“We Hobbits are very good at avoiding notice. We also have very nimble fingers,” my fugitive said, twirling a carrot in his hand for emphasis. “It didn’t take long to find out that His Wisdom doesn’t trust _it_ enough to wear it for more than a few minutes at a time. He’s insane, but he’s not stupid. He keeps it locked in a strongbox when he’s not using it. From there it was simple enough to grab his key and make good on my escape.”

“Saruman is not the only one looking for you. I trust you heard the call last night?”

I cringed, remembering the horrible soul-piercing wail with uncomfortable clarity.

“You cannot hide from them. You and I both know that the ring draws them, like maggots to a corpse, and every day they grow nearer. You risk everything by being here. What are you doing, Bilbo?”

Upon this revelation I was struck numb. I was in the presence of a legend. All Hobbit children, myself included, had heard of Madd Baggins of Bag End. The most infamous Hobbit in living memory, on account of his being an incorrigible Adventurer from a respectable family. The first thing my aunt and uncle had done upon moving into Bag End, or so I had heard, was to tear up the floors looking for his dragon gold.

Bilbo, as I now had to think of him, had no ready response, so the Man pressed his advantage.

“Come with me to Rivendell. The wizard is there. Let us help you.”

“ _Gandalf_. I want nothing to do with that man. It’s his fault that the whole blasted world’s gone mad. I think I hate him.”

“He was betrayed. We were all betrayed. But if anyone knows what to do, it’s Gandalf.”

By this point neither was paying any attention to me, a situation I found relieving, being as it were the state of being to which I was most accustomed.

“I won’t let him take it from me! I found it, I won it; it came to me! It’s mine, my precious!”

The captain shook his head in disgust.

“If you could only listen to yourself! The ring is a thing of evil, a tool of the Enemy.”

“I won’t go! You can’t make me!”

“Bilbo Baggins, you leave me no choice!” cried the captain. He turned to me, apologetically, and then in the blink of an eye slugged Bilbo in the head. The older Hobbit crumpled to the ground. I was not particularly afraid for his health, as Hobbits are known to have some of the hardest heads of all creatures, but the suddenness of the blow shocked me.

“As for you, what did you say your name was?”

“Pippin, sir.”

“There’s no need for ‘sir’, Pippin. Just call me Strider.”

“Yes, s- Strider.”

“Your being here puts me in a difficult position, Pippin.”

“How so, sir? I mean, Strider?”

“I came to the Shire with my rangers with the sole purpose of getting Bilbo out. But you know too much of our designs for me to leave you be, and with the Nazgûl out in force, you will find no safety here.”

“Strider,” I said timorously, “I should think – that is to say, I have never been to a Reservation before, and I should think I would very much like to see Elves.”

“It is decided, then!” It was strange to see his sober face lit by a smile. “You shall come with us to Rivendell.”

We returned with the unconscious body of Bilbo to Bag End. Upon seeing our return, Aunt Lobelia rushed out with her umbrella at the ready.

“Pippin, you imp!”

She stopped short as she saw Strider with me.

“Good morning to you, sir! Has Pippin done something wrong? He’s a right disobedient one, that boy. No good in him, no sir. What sort of trouble is it now? Trespassing again, I reckon.”

“Ma’am, I am pleased to report that we have caught the fugitive menacing the area. I’d like to thank you for your hospitality before my men and I bring him back with us.”

Aunt Lobelia attempted a gracious smile, with enough success for the attempt to be just recognizable as such.

“It was no trouble, oh, no trouble at all! We can’t thank you enough. Pippin, come along now, stop bothering the soldiers!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, ma’am. Your lad here is coming with us. He’s to be questioned on suspicion of aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal.”

At this news Aunt Lobelia gave a dreadful swoon that would have shamed any actor the world over, had she not happened to trip on her umbrella as she fell. After a dramatic pause, she opened her eyes and rising to her full height, she craned her neck up at Strider.

“I always knew he’d come to a bad end! Otho! Otho, get out here! It’s Pippin! The Took boy!”

Strider bid Aunt Lobelia farewell, and his rangers one by one mounted their horses. I was seated behind Strider and Bilbo, whom he had trussed in a fine silver rope (“Elven-made”, though I put little faith even at that tender age in traditional crafts). The sun was high as we rode down the hill again, and through Hobbiton to the edge of the Brandywine, an oily and viscous stream that fueled many an upstream mill. The stout bridge over the river was old and sturdy, and we crossed east into Buckland. I was struck by a profound thought; having never left the Shire, and scarcely even Bag End, I was heretofore going wandering like my namesake, the Peregrin of legend. Dismal though it may have been, I was going to miss my home, and I wondered whether, at the close of this venture, I might ever return. These things I mused on for a time; at least, until my stomach began to growl and I realized with a heavy heart that Adventurers hardly ever eat second breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> Precious Expectations is a monstrous mongrel reframing both the Lord of the Rings and Great Expectations in a dismal shadow of Middle Earth in which the Ring found its way into the hands of evil shortly after the events of The Hobbit and in which the march of Progress has forsaken the simple beauty of that beloved realm for combustion engines and coal mines. Great Expectation being a Dickensian tale, it must by necessity have an orphan traverse the narrative from bleak beginning to much cheerier ending; whereas the Lord of the Rings trilogy opens with a lively birthday celebration and closes with the close of the age of myths as Elvendom and the Ring-bearers depart from the earth and living memory. Naturally a story combining the two would have to be grim from start to finish, and accompanied by the despair of comically wretched urbanites.  
> Reconciling the genres is a difficult prospect, though not as impossible as one might expect. While the smog-choked London of Dickens bears little resemblance to the Shire, both authors were in their own way reacting to the industrialization of Victorian England. Dickens portrayed the miseries of the working class dancing to the tunes of an unscrupulous elite and the growing irrelevance of the aristocracy while wrapping the whole affair in exaggerated caricature, possibly to distract from the inherent honesty of his work. Tolkien, though by no means dedicated to gainsaying industry, found in the Shire an outlet for expressing his distaste at what he saw as the death of the old ways of life, particularly in contrasting the bucolic bliss of the Hobbits in the beginning and the corrupt and squalid “progress” instated by "Sharkey" at the end of the trilogy, and especially the voluntary return of the Hobbits to a preindustrial way of life.  
> Who in their right mind would want to read about such a horrible place, one might ask? Nobody, in all probability. But the story is begging to be told, and the savage thrill of putting so many characters to the pen anew may in fact kill them more thoroughly than any sword. It is a dangerous power to hold, and herein used altogether too lightly. Alas.


End file.
